


Countdown

by tigs



Category: Sports RPF
Genre: 2008 Summer Olympics, Diving boyfriends!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigs/pseuds/tigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trick is developing the count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amy13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy13/gifts).



The first time Thomas sees David at practice—like, actually talks to him, not just sees him around at meets and stuff—he introduces himself as 'Thomas', because that's what he's always been called. Or 'Tom'. Not 'Tommy', though. (Ack, no, *never* 'Tommy'.)

David just shakes Thomas's hand, then looks at him, and says, "Glad to meet you, Finch." Except he slurs the words together, so they become more of a 't'meech'a' than anything discernable.

Thomas opens his mouth to say, 'Thomas' or 'Tom'—because he has never, ever done nicknames—but what comes out is, "Yeah, yeah, you too." What he thinks is: 'Finch'.

He tries it out in his head.

Finch. Finch. Finch.

He decides that it could, you know, be worse.

*

It's a match made by Thomas's mom, actually.

See, she's really into the whole Local Diving Scene. She's got, like, a phone tree and stuff—half used to coordinate rides to the out-of-city meets, half to gossip with other mothers who Get It and spend hours watching their sons or daughters leap off of concrete platforms for fun.

"David Boudia," she says at dinner one night. "His synchro partner, you know, Jason Webb? Well, apparently he's moving to—oh, where did Mary say? La Jolla? Someplace? And *now* the word on the street is that he's looking for someone else."

She grins beatifically at him—innocent, totally innocent—and Thomas mentally sighs. He tried synchro for six months the year before, a new challenge, but then Thomas had gotten the tryout at the National Training Center and, well, he'd left Chris behind.

The next day, when his mom drops him off, she actually goes into Wingfield's office and Thomas has no idea what she says, but after practice, David comes up to him in the locker room and says, "So, Finch, I hear they're thinking of making us partners?"

"I guess?" Thomas says.

David nods once, then turns back to his own locker, gets changed.

*

See, it's not like Thomas has any doubt about his talent, or is one of those people who worries that he's, like, not qualified enough to be in the same pool as The Greats or something like that—because he *is* talented, and he's *totally* as good as, like, any other diver in the place. Or he will be, anyway. But, like, he's only been here for a little over a month, right, and David's been here for *years* now, and Thomas is still learning how Wingfield likes to work his practices and stuff and—

Okay. Basically, their first attempt at a synchronized dive is a complete and utter disaster. Thomas's arms don't come together quickly enough, David's knees are bent. They make a good attempt at splashing half of the water out of the pool, given the way the water's churning when Thomas makes his way back to the surface.

And basically, Thomas thinks, there are two ways that the aftermath could play out. One, David (or Wingfield) will start yelling, say, tryout over! Never going to happen! Or—

Before Thomas can think beyond the 'or' though, Wingfield says, "Jesus, what'd you kids do? Work out a plan to drown me while you were up there?" and David says, "That's exactly what we did. Isn't that right, Finch?" He grins at Thomas before he ducks his head back beneath the water for an instant, and when he comes back up, he's laughing.

Thomas hasn't been here long enough to *truly* feel comfortable joking around, especially with his new coach, but he says, "Yeah, that's right. Next time, we'll just have to try a little harder."

*

"You should come out with us," David says during Thomas's second week at the Center. And yeah, okay, so Thomas may not have had a *whole* lot of experience being the new kid? But he knows this much: when people ask you out to do things, you don't say no.

'Us' turns out to be Mitch and Caleb and Cassie and Christie, all divers, all around his and David's age. David offers to give Thomas a ride home, except it's really Cassie he's offering for, because it takes about 3.5 seconds of being outside the pool for Thomas to realize that David and Cassie are, like, DavidandCassie, complete with linked pinkies as they walk down the street.

And actually, it's pretty awesome. They go out to dinner and go see Kung Fu Hustle at the mall theater and when they come out, Mitch and Caleb and Christie all have, like, a Kung Fu kick-off in the parking lot.

They all go out again the next week, and the next, and then week five comes, Thomas and David's first day of being partners, and Mitch comes up to them in the locker room afterwards and says, "Dudes, we are totally taking you out tonight to celebrate the fact that you haven't killed each other yet. Major accomplishment, dudes. Major accomplishment!"

It's just dinner that night, the six of them crammed into a round booth at Denny's, eating dinner and talking and mixing the remains of their food together on Caleb's plate, their drinks in Christie's glass. David adds, like, an extra five to the waitress's pile of tip money before they leave, which prompts Thomas to add a few extra ones of his own. They grin at each other. After that, they head to a nearby playground; the park is abandoned, but they've still got another hour and a half before it's officially closed, so they start playing a game of chase around the slide, swings, jungle gym. Cassie and Caleb start a game of hide and seek, while David challenges Thomas to a swinging contest, to see who can get higher faster.

And that—they're actually pretty good at that. They don't take off at the same time, but pretty soon their legs are pumping in unison, toes pointed up towards the sky as they climb higher, higher.

They're on the backswing, chains stretched as far as they can go, when David looks over at Thomas and says, "You know, we might not be so bad at this."

*

The trick is developing the count: how long to get to the edge of the platform, how long until they hit the water. It takes practice and, you know, it's hard. Thomas thinks that David's count is just a little too fast, David thinks that Thomas is being too slow. Wingfield tells them they're both off, and please, kids, just try it again. Again. Again.

It sort of becomes their thing, you see. Outside the pool, too. One of them will look at the other and say, "One," and the next thing they know, they're at 25, 30. One hundred. If Caleb's around, he'll butt into their count, saying random numbers, "four, thirty-two, twenty-seven, eight, seventy-six." David is more casual about flipping him off at first, but Thomas picks the habit up as well.

Three weeks in, though, Thomas wonders if they shouldn't be thanking Caleb, because they're counting, as they do, and Caleb does his thing, as he does, and yet somehow, they still hit 100 at the same time, in the same breath, *in time* and Thomas.

Thomas actually doesn't really have any words to describe that.

*

They try their first competitive synchronized dives in a Blue Cross-sponsored meet in California. They've been practicing together for four months now, and Wingfield (and Thomas, and David) all agree that it's time to see how they stack up against the competition.

And, okay, Thomas would like to say that he's a good sport usually, right? He really tries to be, he does, but he's also competitive, and when he knows that he's good enough to get gold, he's going to be disappointed if he doesn't get gold. That's only human nature, right?

The point is, though, that yeah, he's had diving friends before, and yeah, he's wanted them to do well, but he's never had a friend like David, where he thinks, 'If I can't win gold, I want him to.'

And the thing is, David does win gold in the 10M platform, and Thomas wins silver, and when they stand on the podium with the third guy, some guy from Washington, well, it's hard to be disappointed when David's dropping an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close, grinning at the crowd and waving. It's hard not to be happy for him, to feel excited for him. So Thomas does.

It's better, though, he thinks later, when they accept the bronze in the synchro, because after the anthem's played, when the gold medal team is distracted by reporters, David whispers, "Next meet, that's so us, you know?"

Thomas says, "Oh, totally."

*

Time passes quickly, a year and a half gone, just like that and, see, life is good. Life is great. Life is, perhaps, better than it ever has been before.

*

So. Um.

So Thomas tries not to swear usually, because his mom frowns on it, because once you start, Thomas, you're never going to want to stop.

Occasionally, though, he needs to. Like, a lot. Like now. Which is why he shuts the door to his room, locks it, lies down face first on his bed, buries his head under his pillow, and proceeds to repeat, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," about twenty or thirty times. Loud, soft, quick, slow, over and over.

Because he is well and truly fucked.

Because today they managed a completely in-unison back three and a half with only minimal splash—in other words, 9.5 or 10-worthy, all across the board—and when they surfaced, Wingfield holding up his '10' card, whooping, David smiled at him. He was laughing, mouth spread wide, and Thomas smiled back, maybe a little stupidly, suddenly feeling a little too warm despite being in the water, the coolness of the air in the Center against his face. And then, as David swam towards him on an almost intercept course and Thomas's hand started to skim out across the water, to touch, or maybe to pull him closer, something clicked in his brain.

Why he had started to feel vaguely disappointed if he and David weren't able to go get a snack or dinner or do something after practice, despite the fact that they spent 5 or 6 hours a day together at the pool. Why he found himself smiling (stupidly) whenever David looked at him. Why he was maybe finding April, the new Cassie, a little bit more annoying these days for the way she just seemed to always want to be there, or the way she sighed when they came back from wherever if she hadn't been, or the way that she insisted on holding David's hand if they went anywhere, ever, or the way—

So basically: it's a realization, it's an 'oh fuck' moment if Thomas has ever had one, and for a few minutes—until his mom calls him for dinner anyway—he wallows.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

*

Thomas tries to be a professional, see.

People tell him that he's mature for his age all the time—how could he not be, doing what he does?—but there's only so much leeway in reactions when dealing with the realization that somehow, at some point, you've developed a crush on your partner, your best friend for the last two years. The guy who knows you well enough that he finishes your sentences, for goodness sake.

The first day back (a.k.a., Day Two, the Next Day, Wednesday) Thomas feels like it's obvious. Like he's walking around with a neon sign over his head, a brightly lit arrow that's pointing down at him, flashing: look! He's got a secret! If you look closely enough, you'll be able to tell what it is!

(Fuck, he thinks.)

David doesn't act like he can tell anything's changed, though. He still jokes with Thomas, finishes his sentences. Calls him Finch and slaps a wet hand against his shoulder when they come closer to hitting the front four than they ever have before.

Thomas keeps finding himself staring when he doesn't want to, though; blushing when David looks at him. And when David asks if he wants to go by Baskin Robbins after practice, just the two of them, he says no, because if he goes, if he has to see David grin at him anymore today, he's going to do something stupid, like lean across the table to lick a smear of ice cream off of David's lips. Or he'll start to say something like, "I'm thinking—" and David will take the opportunity to finish his sentence: "—that you have a crush on me?" and then Thomas will have to die.

Day three, April's there, so Thomas has an excuse to beg off, and on day four, Friday, it's tradition for them all to go out, and it'll be easier in a group, Thomas thinks. Except he ends up sitting next to David in their regular circular booth, because it's expected, and they keep bumping knees under the table, or brushing elbows, and Thomas feels like his face is on fire. It gets better, though, because Caleb tries to steal Thomas's fries and that is, like, totally a kick-worthy offense, and David jumps in to the fray in an attempt to protect his teammate's honor, and Thomas can't help grinning at him when they inevitably win, and oh, he is so, so fucked.

But maybe, just maybe, he thinks, fucked isn't such a bad place to be?

*

Except it totally is.

Because things are going on just like they have been for a few weeks now, right, and Thomas has even started to feel mostly comfortable around David again, because he's self-aware enough to know that this whole, you know, *crush* thing isn't exactly a new development. And maybe that’s the problem, because if David hadn't figured it out yet, right, he's not going to figure it out now.

But then one afternoon after practice, when David is giving him a ride home, is talking about something—some movie? something?—he glances over at Thomas and catches him staring. In that moment, Thomas doesn't think anything of it, because it's not like it's a bad thing to be looking at the person who's talking to you, right? But maybe his expression is a little bit too open with his feelings or something, because David actually stumbles over what he's saying. Then he looks back at Thomas again, his own gaze questioning, and now Thomas is mentally flipping out, because *what if* David had been able to tell? And if he had, was it going to weird him out? What if he couldn't deal? What if--?

David still smiles at Thomas when he drops him off, though, and it's genuine enough that Thomas actually calms down some. Thinks that maybe he imagined, well, everything.

Except he totally didn't, because David is too busy that weekend to go see the movie they'd made plans to go see, and he rushes into practice Monday morning with barely a hello, and whenever Thomas looks over at the pool David's practicing his solo dives in, it's always at David's back. He doesn't manage to catch David's eye once.

It's worse when they get to synchro, because for the first time in two years, their count—the one that Thomas is pretty sure he breathes in time to now—is off. David's too fast, or Thomas is too slow, and after an hour, Wingfield throws his clipboard down at the edge of the pool and says, "You guys have a fight I need to know about? Whatever it is, you need to get it *out of your systems*, you hear?"

"No fight," David says quickly. "Sorry, it's my fault, I just—"

"I don't want excuses," Wingfield says. "I want you to do it right."

It's maybe a little better after that. They're both *trying* to stay in beat, anyway, but the thing is, they shouldn't need to be trying.

They just *should* be.

*

Thomas isn't actually expecting David to give him a ride home that afternoon, but it still stings when he breezes by in the locker room and says, "Caleb said he could give you a ride, if you need one."

"Yeah, sure," Thomas says. He wants to say, 'I'm sorry,' because he's the one who's made things weird, obviously. He wants to say, 'It's not like it's going to change anything,' because it's not going to. He won't let it. He wants to say, 'I thought you were better than this', because he'd thought David was. If their positions were reversed, and he'd discovered that David had a crush on him, well. He'd like to think that he'd try not to let it change anything. What they had was too important—they were too good at all of this—to let anything derail it. Or so he'd thought.

There's not a whole lot that Thomas can do, though. Not right now. Not without forcing the issue, and it would be better, he's sure, if David figures things out on his own. Which he will, Thomas is sure, because if he doesn't, Thomas will have to kick his ass.

Which he can totally do. He's actually taller than David now, after all.

*

Day two, Tuesday, is a little better in the diving department, but also brings Thomas a little bit closer to the mentally threatened ass kicking, because now David is trying too hard. His smiles are too forced, his manner too careful.

He offers Thomas the ride home—Tuesday is April night, so Thomas would have passed on hanging out, even if David had asked, which he didn't—and keeps up a steady stream of chatter the entire way, some inane story from the weekend, a more in depth explanation of why he was too busy to go to the movie with Thomas.

Wednesday is—

Wednesday is, perhaps, worst of all, because David comes in late—like, a half hour, actually—and when Wingfield calls him on it, he doesn't offer any explanation, just takes the dressing down. He's more subdued than he usually is—at least it looks like it from a distance—but later, when it's time for he and Thomas to make their way to the top of the platform, he actually seems almost jittery. He keeps taking deep breaths, tapping his toes as they wait for the go-ahead. Whenever Thomas looks over at him, though, he's staring straight ahead. Like Thomas isn't there. There's no laughing, no joking, and suddenly Thomas has had enough.

If they weren't in the middle of practice, he might let David have it right then and there, but they are, so he just concentrates on keeping the time, keeping the count.

It's late when Wingfield finally lets them leave, too late, and Thomas wants to forgo the ride home, but everyone else is already gone, so it's not like he has a choice. This time, he's the one to stare straight ahead, to be abrupt with the conversation that David does make, because if he does get started talking, he's pretty sure he'll say something that he'll come to regret.

Thomas actually has his hand on the handle to the car door before David's come to a complete stop in front of Thomas's house, but before he can get a foot on the pavement outside, David's reaching across the console and wrapping his hand around Thomas's forearm.

"Finch," he says, and it's—he's not quite pleading, it's enough that Thomas actually stops and turns towards him. David stares at him for a long moment, then looks back through the front window. Before Thomas can open the door farther, though, he says, "I'm sorry. I've been really—I've been shitty to you the last few days."

"Yeah," Thomas says. "You have. I mean, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but—" He has more to say—all of the words that have been going through his head for the last several days—but before he can, David is reaching across the console again, this time fisting his hand in Thomas's shirt and pulling him in.

Then he's kissing David: lips against lips first, hard, and then more softly, and that's about the point that Thomas starts to relax, about the time his eyelids slip shut. He tightens his fingers against his own thigh once, then again, then reaches across the console and touches his fingers to the back of David's neck. The hair at his nape is damp, and David leans into the touch.

"Finch," he says when he pulls back, and for a moment, Thomas thinks that he's going to pull away entirely, that this is it, the end, but then David says, "I broke up with April last night. That's why I was late this morning. I just—" He pauses a moment, and Thomas wants to ask why, what changed, because David's never given Thomas any inclination that he feels at *all* like Thomas does (at least not until a few minutes ago), but David just say, "It's been us since the first day, you know? The two of us. No one better."

Thomas nods, because it's true. And just like that, the count, more familiar than breathing, restarts in his head.

One.

Two.

Three.

*

They're both late to practice the next day, and Wingfield is fit to be tied. He's yelling, asking if they're still serious about this, if they even *want* to be diving anymore, seriously, kids. They listen, and about every other sentence or so, Thomas catches David looking at him. They grin in unison, try not to laugh since that would get them into even more trouble.

Once they get back on the platform, though, it's like the last few days never happened. They line up, start the count. They do a simple dive, a front two and a half, and they must be back on, because when Thomas finally surfaces, Wingfield's smiling again. "That's what I'm talking about," he says. "That, right there."

"You and me, Finch," David says as they swim back to the edge. "No one better."

In response, Thomas grins so widely his cheeks actually start to hurt.

End.


End file.
